The Law was the compounded changing judgment, He, the law-abiding judge, a multi-layered cafe pastry man, with a Mind full of cafe mumbles, a thick paste of past between his layers, almost liquid, seeping continuously, between prim coffee sips, through half-baked barriers of querulous cogitation.

His problem was that he wanted to BE his cake and EAT it too, and also to stand outside, admiring its colors, the delicacy of feathered flakes, to marvel at the miracle of mixture that birthed it; and to taste it, especially, best flavors from most treasured, deepest profound layers. But, because sour parts gave indigestion, and hidden stones fallen into the initial mix, cracked teeth, and scraped tender-proud gums, and too much sugar on the surface ice, caused wincing embarrassment— because of these, it was hard to savor the good for fear of the bad.

So he resolved to be . . . a criminal, to weave inside and outside of association’s Law, bending the ephemeral flow, of judgment, of sometimes slow, other times quick jerks and twitches of mental machinations. And he would go backwards sometimes too, or forwards if it suited him, drifting, but not foundering, playing along, but not necessarily by the rules. And he did not play to win; he didn’t have to, being a clever Crook, who understood the rule of the Law which, in the fine print, (in-between intricate layers), arbitrarily states that there is, in fact, nothing but the Law.

And therefore, also, there shall be and is no weeping One, who really falls (who falls?) through the treacherous cracks, into obscurity, like a contemptible Crumb pushed off the cake onto the table, then flicked onto the filthy floor by the Merciless Finger.

And no One Crumb may soar up the hierarchical ranks of the Wedding Cake, to live in Perfect Union at the Top, standing victoriously betwixt a static, forever smiling, Mystic Marriage. No, there is only the Wholly Wedded Gift, the movement of the Law.